


I'm Not In Love With You

by song_of_orpheus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bruising, Genderqueer confusion, Kissing, Knives, Other, everyone you love is trans, just mentioned, mentioned not used, mostly pretty low-key romantic stuff, not dancing, references to violence, violence is not actually depicted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/song_of_orpheus/pseuds/song_of_orpheus
Summary: Gueulemer is a Hercules of a man, and he's not sure what affection really means, but it's raining, and he's missed them.





	I'm Not In Love With You

It’s raining again, because the Gods of Paris clearly have nothing better to do, and it makes the sky feel alive with warm howling so much that in stirs something in the souls of those below. Not that Guelemer believes in Gods, or souls – if he did, he’d boil their teeth and cut out their hearts whole. Perhaps, instead, the Gods believe in him.

 

The alleyway is dark as such things are, sheltered from all but the faintest dreams of light. The paving stones shiver where it hits them, and the towering man’s boots crash them apart it seems. It is the kind of night he feels he could rip apart the Earth with his bare hands. Secreted away inside his heels, the knives are heavy, bold and sharp-tongued; they needn’t be delicate. Anything Gueulemer touches must be callous or else break apart in his hands.

 

There’s old francs in the heels, too. A promise trapped in a space the size of a fingernail. Safety.

 

At the end of the alleyway, there’s a back door to a club, something fancy Montparnasse likes to steal from. There’s a figure sitting in the sharp light from the crack in the door, twisting a blade like a spinning needle in their hands. Music gasps through the closed door behind them, and what looks suspiciously like glitter is draped over their hair and shoulders.

 

Gueulemer can’t help laughing like an earthquake – he’s never been one for subtlety – and in the next moment there’s a familiar arm wrapped tight around his neck, and he’s spluttering for breath, laughing so much harder.

 

Freezing in recognition, Glorieux releases him quickly, then shoves him away with all the delicacy of a buffalo. “Gueulemer, you fucking clod!”

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he replies plainly, studying everything that’s changed in his friend. Still shorter than him, still lean and strong. The rain has made their eyeliner smudge into golden feathers on their cheeks, and their lipstick is faded around the edges. Purple, like pomegranates.

 

Glorieux shuffles by fractions, their shoulders hanging in a nervous way and eyes full of night. “I’m not mad at you, for once. I’m just tired.”

 

They neither disagree nor apologise. That’s fine; Gueulemer never apologises either. If he had convictions, it would be against them to.

 

Glorieux always speaks with a mouth full of thorns, their mind impossibly sharp. Gueulemer, on the other hand, could be made of granite, his mouth and eyes smudges of charcoal. Neither of them are tender people, and Gueulemer almost starts laughing again at the number of arguments they’ve shared just in a few days.

 

When they sit down in front of the club door, the space between them shrinks until the rain can’t reach them.

 

“You a woman now, Glorieux?” he asks the, with a voice crusted with the night and the rain and the sleeplessness.

 

“Fuck off.” Then they laugh, silently, breath cresting on their lips over and over. “I dunno. Who the hell knows anything about any of that anyway, Hercules?”

 

“Sure.” He doesn’t push it – maybe they’ll figure it out in a while, or maybe they won’t. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like they don’t have plenty of company in the Patron-Minette, anyway.

 

Silence drifts between them for some moments, pulling and tugging in waves on the air. Then they turn to him, look at his face deep and deeper. “Your face-” they start, raising long faux nails to scrape his cheek, “-when was the last time you were in a fight?”

 

“Couple a days ago?” Gueulemer finds something grinning behind the bruises in his fists, and perhaps a little of it shows on his face.

 

“Impressive. I bet I can get you a fight before the end of the night.” Glorieux’s eyes are clumped with mascara, and they’re softer than he’s ever seen them.

 

“I’m not in love with you,” Gueulemer replies stoutly, because Gueulemer will not miss any opportunity to make a fool of himself. He’s suddenly aware of all his molecules at once, and a brand sears at his jowls. His lips move too slowly, impossibly slowly, and his tongue tastes of ash. “I mean- I didn’t-”

 

“I know.” Glorieux hushes him with their quietness. That’s their speciality, after all, the silent theft. Not in a haunting way like Claquesous but much more human than that. It’s that intense humanity he tries to read in their face now.

 

He’s not very good at it.

 

At last, they say: “I’m not in love with you either. Come back to the club with me.” And Gueulemer could never refuse.

 

Everything that exists is them slipping into the back door of the club, feigned arguments and humour fluttering between them with a familiar and not unkind sting. Gueulemer feels clumsy here, limbs awkward around him, but he refuses to take up any less space than he wants to. Then everything becomes Glorieux pulling his shirt off, their lipstick catching burrs on the horizontal scars on his chest, their pink acrylic nails at his neck, and glitter – because it really is glitter – sparking bright against their shoulders. Rain still blushes pale on their hair.

 

They’re not dancing, of course. But there’s smoke in the air and something magic stirring in his lungs, bodies pressed hot against him and his arms around Glorieux. The two breathe fierceness into one another, all the sharp angles softening.

 

Gueulemer is not a sentimentalist; he’s not known as Hercules for nothing, and his day job isn’t exactly the safest. But in the middle of the club, the strobe lights melting away all the harshness of their faces, there could be a place for care. He won’t name it yet, and he doesn’t need to. So he just kisses them until the lipstick’s split into plum juice on their skin and their lips are tangled dark red.

 

Before the night is over, Gueulemer has bruises on his cheek and knuckles as promised, and they bleed hot and wet. If Glorieux kisses love into it before they leave, then that’s their business alone.

 

“I’m not in love with you, but I _could be_.”

 


End file.
